


in the end

by clarinetta



Category: The Beatles
Genre: 1969, Angst, Breakup era, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-09
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-30 00:11:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8511298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarinetta/pseuds/clarinetta
Summary: Mal Evans, lost.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for my ficlet-a-day personal challenge and originally posted on my tumblr, @pickledbeatles.

“I want a divorce,” John said, and the bottom fell out of Mal Evans’s world.

After the meeting ended, Mal took his time in studio, cleaning up after everyone. Guitars had been strewn haphazardly over chairs and benches, leaning crazily like drunken sailors on leave. Paul had left the piano cover open, lyrics abandoned on the stand; running his fingers over the smooth wood, Mal gently closed the cover with a small, final thunk. He set the guitars on their stands, packed Paul’s beloved violin bass into its case and zipped it shut. The filing cabinet that held miscellaneous percussion instruments had been locked; Mal pulled out his key and unlocked it, dimly aware that this was the last time he would have to put away Ringo’s drumsticks and tambourines and maracas just right. He had born Ringo’s fussing and moaning for seven years. He didn’t realize until that moment, putting the instruments away for the last time, how much he was going to miss it.

Finally, there was nothing left to clean. Mal stood helplessly in the center of the room. He knew that soon another band would take over this studio, would change everything around, and he felt a hot flash of hatred for those future musicians. It seemed wrong, that someone else would use this piano, or that guitar stand, or sit in that control room listening to their own rubbish playbacks.

He stepped dazedly out of the studio for the last time and closed the door. He was so lost in thought that he almost walked right by Paul without seeing him. Paul was sitting in a chair outside the meeting room, one leg crossed primly over the other, staring blankly at the opposite wall. He didn’t look up when Mal stopped, nor did he answer the first time Mal addressed him.

“Paul?” Mal said again, this time a little quieter, fearing that he might startle him.

This time Paul responded. He took a deep breath and looked up, giving Mal a weak smile.

“Are you waiting for someone?” Mal asked. Paul shook his head, distracted, and Mal felt a flood of affection and sympathy, along with a tiny spark of energy. As long as the boys needed him, he felt he had a place in the world, and Paul clearly needed someone. He put one hand on Paul’s shoulder. “I’ll drive you home, eh?”

The drive took only a few minutes, despite the evening traffic. The silence was nearly tangible, but Mal couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

The gates at Cavendish opened with a rusty squeal. There were only a couple of Apple Scruffs standing on the sidewalk, and they kept a decent enough distance that Mal had no trouble closing the gates once they were through, as he’d had in previous years. Grabbing Paul’s guitar from the back seat, he parked, got out, and let himself into Paul’s house. The place felt empty, devoid of Linda and Heather’s childish chatter. He set the guitar down and stepped outside again.

Paul had not gotten out of the car yet. He looked like a statue, sitting frozen in the front passenger seat, the nail of his pointer finger trapped savagely between his teeth. Mal walked back out to the car and opened the passenger side door, crouching so that he could look at Paul on the level. Paul tried to turn his face away, but it was too late - Mal saw the tears streaking his face.

“Oh, Paul,” he sighed, his own throat tightening painfully. He put one hand on Paul’s back and felt him shaking. “Come on, love.” Paul allowed himself to be led by Mal’s hands as they gently tugged him out of the car. Wrapping his arm around Paul’s hunched shoulders, Mal led him up the front porch steps and into the house.

As soon as the door closed, Paul sagged against Mal, fisting his hands in Mal’s shirt. He shook soundlessly, his face buried in Mal’s chest, and Mal held him tight for a moment, trying in vain to swallow his own tears. He felt selfish, almost silly, for being so upset. He wasn’t a Beatle; he wasn’t involved in their money problems or their arguments over lawyers or Yoko or how to play this or that guitar solo.

After a moment, he led Paul to the living room sofa and sat him down. He pulled the quilt off the back of the sofa and wrapped it around Paul’s shoulders, despite the late summer air. Tugging the quilt tighter, Paul shrunk back into the sofa, knees pulled to his chest, looking like a child lost in a shop. It broke Mal’s heart, and he muttered something about going out to the gardens before escaping that terrible image. He stepped into the gardens, inhaled the scent of late blooming flowers, and burst into tears.

Afterward, he couldn’t have guessed how long he wandered around the gardens of Cavendish, crying like a fool, unable to stop. It felt like the world ending. He heard the traffic as it shifted and moved on the streets and couldn’t understand why it hadn’t all stopped. He stroked a few rose petals and couldn’t comprehend that there were still flowers living and growing, that they hadn’t all withered and died away. The thing that had consumed Mal’s life for the better half of a decade was over, and he both resented and envied the rest of the world for turning just as it had been before.

When he finally managed to dry his face, it was close to dusk, the warm sunlight nearly gone. Mal walked back into Paul’s house through the back door. The house still felt like a tomb; Paul had left the lights off, and shadows were growing long and deep in the late afternoon. Entering the front room, Mal saw that Paul had barely moved at all from his place on the sofa, but his head sagged to the side, exhaustion getting the better of him. He slept with his mouth slightly open, his face still tearstained, as though he had cried himself to sleep.

Protectiveness welled up in Mal’s chest, and he had to fight off a fresh wave of tears as he knelt beside the sofa. He ran his fingers clumsily through Paul’s hair.

“It’s going to be all right,” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure he believed it himself.


End file.
